Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
It doesn’t matter where in the world I am. Surrounded by what I know, who I love, and the knowledge that I’m not just waiting around for the universe to do whatever it wants to me, but racing headlong toward whatever’s out there, I feel good and alive.
Even when I’m racing headlong toward the unknown.
I nod to the Watsons as I pull the bike forward to the open door of the building, pausing for just a moment, letting the motorcycle idle next to Eliza, who is standing there. Arms crossed. Waiting for something.
Assurance. Guarantees. Affirmation. All different words for the same thing.
But since I have none of these, I simply nod at her as well and then we’re off.
The sting of the Irish air burns against my face as I shift into another gear. I don’t even have sunglasses, so I can’t keep the sharp blast of wind from out of my eyes. I squint and lower my head.
“You okay?” I call back to Christine. Her hair is whipping around and I catch glimpses of it as it flutters around in my peripheral vision.
“Yeah,” she shouts to be heard. “You know where we’re going?”
In the short term? More or less. More generally? Not even a little bit.
“Yeah,” I respond.
She pulls tighter against me and for a moment—a fleeting non-moment that’s nearly over before it begins—I have a vision.
Me and Christine. Sometime in the future. Where are we? A beach, maybe? Why are we there? We’re watching something. I don’t know quite what it is and I can’t hold it. It’s gone before I can grasp it.
And then I’m back in Belfast again. Moving past cars and weaving in and out of traffic. Christine gripping me tight, the wind burning my eyes.
The fuck was that? A premonition? A dream? A fantasy? All of the above?
Doesn’t matter, I guess.
And now, up ahead, I see it. The Sam Thompson Bridge. A footbridge that connects the grimier, more industrial part of Belfast Harbour to the green, lush, beautiful Victoria Park just across the other side. Named after a dead Irish playwright who wrote about corruption and inequality and shit like that. I have no idea where I learned that bit of trivia, but there’s something that must have stuck with me about this bridge that connects the gritty and dirty with the beautiful and placid. Or maybe I just have too much space in my brain for useless knowledge. Either way, it’s up ahead.
Glancing at my watch, I see we have five minutes before Alec and Brasil are supposed to meet. I don’t have binocs or anything even remotely tech-oriented to assist in surveying the territory, so we’re going to have to get closer than I would like to keep eyes on whatever winds up going down.
The thought occurs to me to maybe call Alec and let him know we’re here, but my goal in showing up is to provide possible backup and un-fuck anything that might get fucked, and the best way to do that is to lie back and see what unfolds. I think. Fuck, I dunno. But I don’t call.
I pull the bike to a stop probably a football field’s distance away. (A football field. Not a pitch. American football, not whatever they do over here.) I unzip my jacket and feel for my piece. I know it’s there, but touching it to make sure makes me feel better. I hear Christine do the same thing behind me.
“What now?” she asks.
“I dunno. I’m kinda just making shit up as we go along.”
“Stay with what you’re good at, I suppose.”
I laugh a tiny bit in spite of myself and twist my neck to look at her over my shoulder so she can see my face. Her hair is a tangle of everywhere-ness. It makes me feel the slightest bit warm inside, despite the circumstances.
I can’t believe I let myself drift away from them and live such a solitary life for as long as I did. No, that’s a lie. Of course I can. I’m stubborn and strong-willed. Which, while a necessary armor I developed for many good reasons, has not always served me to my best advantage over the years.
I’ll not admit that I’m better with them than I am alone, but I am. I’m just… I dunno… forced to engage with parts of myself that I wouldn’t otherwise, and that makes me stronger, more nimble, more adaptable than I am when they’re not around. It may make me kind of nicer too, but I honestly don’t give a shit about that.
I can’t let us be pulled apart again. There’s just no way. I won’t.
I scan the area, looking first for Alec and then for anything else that appears out of the ordinary. There’s a huge, brick building on this side of the bridge. It’s not tall, maybe only about the height of the bridge itself, but it’s long, running parallel to the river the bridge traverses. Other than that, just cars, trucks, various tourist types meandering about and wandering on and off of the bridge itself.